


Awakening

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 1.01, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, pilot, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1.01. Barry wakes up from his coma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awakening

It's like falling asleep.

One moment he's watching the particle accelerator deteriorate: the next, listening to two people he's never met before. They're too young to be on the force, they can't be Joe's friends, and Iris doesn't just let new people into his room when he's asleep, where is Iris, where's Joe,  _where is he_ —

( _I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas please_

_Fold 'em, let 'em hit me baby stay with me (I love it))_

He  _recognizes_  that song.

But he doesn't recognize anything else about the room, sterile, antiseptic – hospital?

What  _happened_?

Okay, the particle accelerator blew. Something went wrong. Something went very, very wrong. Except the accelerator was supposed to be safe, Dr. Wells was a genius, he knew  _exactly_ what he was doing, Barry had read his autobiography ten times – nothing should have gone wrong. It should have been a smooth launch, a scientific landmark that would save  _millions_ of lives someday.

Instead, it blew out and threw a cloud of energy across the city.

The power goes out, and it's like he's back in that room, thinking about all the lab work he should have started, how Captain Singh will be pleasantly surprised if he's  _ahead_ of schedule and for once in his life Barry wants to be. He wants to make  _Joe_ proud, too, make up for the embarrassment he put him through earlier ("I might have had a few bites of it."  _Honestly?_ ). Joe has saved his ass more times than he can count. It's time to start repaying those debts.

So he adopts a quiet sort of nonchalance, checking over the lab, moving decisively towards the chains to close the doors over the leaking skylights. He can do that much, and he'll mop up afterward, get to work, maybe salvage the evening after all. He can't change what happened to the accelerator – it's probably fine anyway, might just be as simple as a power shortage, a blowout—

Then the substance in the test tubes begins to rise and Barry has to clutch the chains as his mind fills with white noise because no-no-no not-here-not-now-he-can't-be

Barry bolts upright, gasping for breath, and it's like breaking the surface only to discover he's on another  _planet_ , this isn't  _right_ , and he can hear himself asking, "Where am I?" but it doesn't feel like his own voice. Everything seems strangely magnified, like he can feel something different, a new spectrum of colors, a buzz of electricity.

Someone is  _right_ on top of him, scarcely letting him breathe as he sits up, and there are wires strapping him down, what the  _hell_ , he's prying them off his chest as a different person speaks rapidly into a phone, holding up an arm to block the persistent someone – a woman, in scrubs; okay, some kind of doctor, that makes sense, but she can't be that much older than him and honestly,  _stop_ with the  _lights_  – and then the guy in the back joins her, steadies him with a hand on his shoulder as he sways because  _what happened._

He thinks,  _Oh my god, is Joe okay? Is Iris okay?_

If he's hurt, then maybe they are, too, and maybe the accelerator isn't going back online any time soon after all, maybe it's a lot more serious than he speculated, maybe he needs to get on a phone right now and find out if they're okay, if everyone's okay, is anyone else hurt?

Except – he doesn't feel any pain. His heart is beating fast and he feels warm, but otherwise he feels fine. Totally normal. Definitely not enough to merit staying at a hospital.

He wants to tell them he's okay and they need to stop, but they aren't really  _listening,_  and he's getting frustrated and his heart is pounding for a different reason because there are so many hands on him and he's shirtless and more exposed than he's ever felt in his life and something is very, very wrong.

"Relax," the man says, squeezing his arm. "Everything's okay, man. You're at Star Labs."

"Star Labs?" Barry asks, bewildered. Why is he  _here_? More importantly: "Who are you?"

"I'm Cisco Ramon. She's Caitlin – Doctor Snow." He speaks with an almost drawling inflection, like he's explaining something simple to a child, and Barry wants to say  _why are you here, you're not my friends, I don't know you_  – but Snow holds up a cup.

"I need you to urinate in this."

 _At least buy me dinner first_ , Barry thinks.

"Not this  _second_ ," Cisco interjects, looking at her pointedly.

This is too much, he's not even supposed to be here – wherever  _here_  is, he's never actually been this deep inside Star Labs before – and he tries to say it aloud but he's still waking up, still trying to remember how to use his voice, he didn't exactly expect an interrogation the second he regained consciousness but maybe he should have.

"What is – " and it's starting to hit him all at once, the weird lighting, the weird instruments, the weird  _void_ in his mind where he thinks dreams should be but instead is a great, echoing silence. "What is  _happening?_ " he asks, feeling a wave of vertigo. "What is going on?"

He can hear the grin in Cisco's voice as he responds, "You were struck by  _lightning_ , dude."

_Chains, brilliant yellow light, a crackle of electricity and then everything's gone, gone, gone._

"What?" he asks, because it feels like a dream, like it happened to someone else, it can't be him. He's just  _Barry Allen,_  chronically late, frequently uncoordinated, goofy nerd with a crush on Iris and a lot of favors owed to Joe. (And a father in prison for a crime he didn't commit—)

He thinks of the man in the lightning and turns away, thinks about bolting for the door, but he feels awkward on his feet, stilted, like he hasn't stood in a long time, like his body is trying to remember how to  _exist_.

Except – there's a stranger in the mirror.

"Lightning – gave me abs?" he says slowly.

This isn't happening. _Snap out of it._

He thinks,  _I should pinch myself._

Caitlin's already got her hands on him, telling him that: "Your muscles should be atrophied, but instead they're in a chronic and unexplained state of cellular regeneration."

_What?_

This can't be happening. This isn't real.

He's supposed to be at the lab, the crime lab, doing research, making Joe and Singh proud, showing up too late at the house and collapsing face-first into bed and waking to Iris all but pouncing on him because he never wakes up for Joe and  _oof_ , she catches an elbow in his chest and that hurts, but it's okay because she's warm and laughs easily and he kind of loves getting to hold her for a few moments before they both get up.

Star Labs.

It blew up. Or, at least, it threw off  _something_ that did.

"Come here," Cisco says, and it's less an invitation and more of an order as he steers Barry towards a chair, "have a seat."

He doesn't know why he can feel every square inch of the chair so  _vividly_ , his thumb idly caressing the arm of it. It's like every sensation is richer: the air, the tiny, intermittent sounds of machinery, the distant certainty of someone else moving in the building, the way Caitlin and Cisco project confidence to hide their own surprise, little cues in their movements giving it away.

 _Who are you?_ he wants to ask. He knows their names but he doesn't know  _them,_  doesn't understand what's going on,  _any_ of it, and—

"You were in a coma," Cisco says bluntly.

Barry's spiraling thoughts flat-line.  _I'm sorry?_

The emotions are so intense his brain doesn't even consider letting them in; instead, it walls them off, and suddenly in that clarity he feels  _anger_ , he  _needs to know,_ he's tired of being in the dark, something is wrong and they  _know_ what it is. Cold, flat, he demands, "For how long?"

The last voice he expects to hear replies, "Nine months."

Wielding a battering ram worthy of a Greek god,  _astonishment_ smashes down the door barring it from Barry's consciousness, sweeping over him so suddenly that it's all he can feel.

"Welcome back, Mr. Allen. We have a lot to discuss."

 _Confusion_ tramples child-like through his brain, assessing details it already knows ( _where am I where am I where am I what happened what happened what happened is this real is this real is this real_ );  _fear_ skitters nervously across his consciousness, fracturing the suave grip he has on reality, making his fingers  _tense_ around the chair, his legs tremble, his mouth run dry, because oh God, oh God, oh God, this is  _real,_ this is  _happening,_ he's not dreaming; and then  _finality_ takes fear by the throat and strangles it until it's quiet, and he can finally breathe,  _speak_.

"You're Dr. Wells." Trying out speech, urging  _confidence_ and  _authority_ back to the controls, he repeats, "You're the Harrison Wells."

Dr. Wells tips his head in a slight nod, acknowledging it, as he wheels inside the room in a motorized wheelchair. ( _What happened what happened what happened?_ )

Cisco hands him a shirt and Barry listlessly pulls it on; he doesn't even know what's wrong with him but  _something_ is, something is different, and whatever happened nine months ago changed  _everything_  (and  _panic_ is quaking in the jaws of  _defeat_ , knowing that it can scream all it wants but it'll never change what happened).

"Come with me," Dr. Wells urges.

Barry has no choice.  _Finality_  needs answers, needs something to build a new foundation of reality upon because he isn't dreaming or dead so he needs to start living, to start regrouping.

"It's hard to believe I'm here," he says slowly, grateful that the first words out of his mouth aren't  _why did this happen to me._

 _Anguish_ has no place in  _defeat's_ realm. It can't win. He needs to burn and bury it.

"I've always wanted to meet you face-to-face," he adds. The truth is easy.

Dr. Wells smiles paternally, amused. "Well, you certainly went to great lengths to do it," he tells Barry. Then, anticipating his questions, Wells continues, wheeling beside him slowly, letting him readjust to being  _alive._

 _You were never dead_ , he tells himself, but he doesn't know everything, how could he? Maybe he did die, maybe the afterlife is just really weirdly mundane, and the thought is strong enough  _panic_ manages to break loose and he's struggling to contain himself.

"Star Labs has not been operational since FEMA categorized us as class four hazardous location," Dr. Wells explains. There's something grounding about his voice and Barry manages to tie himself to it, to accept that this is  _real_ , he is  _real_ , he didn't die, he has a heartbeat. Death is still, silent, cold. He's electric, loud,  _alive._

"Seventeen people died that night." There's a solemn quality to Dr. Wells' voice, difficult to read. Like he, too, is trying to keep certain emotions under lock-and-key. Barry has to admit that Dr. Wells' attempts are significantly more successful; he's not sure if he'll start laughing or crying or screaming first, but thankfully  _finality_ is strong, shoving everything else behind the door, letting his heart rate slow again to its new resting march.

"Many more were injured," Dr. Wells says, "myself amongst them."

Barry becomes painfully aware of Dr. Wells' position, trapped in a wheelchair. Before he can comment on it, ask him how permanent it is, something else grips him as they reach the edge of an observation platform and look down at a meltdown of incredible proportions. "Jeez." He swallows sharply and asks, "What happened?"

There's a dream-like quality to Dr. Wells' voice, and Barry lets himself be lulled by it, lets himself believe that this is almost normal, they're touring Star Labs' facilities and he wasn't really in a coma and everything is fine.

"Nine months ago," Dr. Wells intones, and  _reality_  is stark, abrasive, trying to break through the wall  _finality_ is building around him around as it chants  _no-more, no-more, no-more_ , "the particle accelerator went online exactly as planned."

Barry remembers that, lets  _finality_ affix mortar between the bricks, finding common ground to rationalize this new reality with his old life.

"For forty-five minutes I had achieved my life's dream."

Barry tries to comprehend it, the magnitude of such an achievement. He remembers staring in utter absorption at the pages of Dr. Wells' book deep into the night, trying to become another man, someone greater and wiser than he could ever be.

"Then . . . then there was an anomaly."

There's a halting quality to Dr. Wells' tone, like it pains him to admit it, and Barry thinks neither of them are as good at concealing emotion as they would like.

"The electron volts became unmeasurable," Dr. Wells says slowly, "the ring under us popped. Energy from that detonation was thrown into the sky and that, in turn, seeded a storm cloud. . . ."

Huddled behind the mental wall with finality, shielded from every other emotion, Barry can think. It comes together slowly: without mental attachment, easily. "That created the lightning bolt that struck me," he finishes.

"That's right."

He thinks  _it can't be_  but that's panic talking, trying to tear apart the wall. But it's stable and finality is firm, unmoving, and Barry starts to feel calmer, more capable, the longer he stays here, shielded from everything else. Shielded from his own reality.

"I was recovering myself," Dr. Wells admits, "when I heard about you. The hospital was undergoing unexplainable power outages every time you were going into cardiac arrest—" the white noise in his head is phenomenal, and he thinks it's finality's way of shutting the clamor up, of keeping itself intact, "—which was actually a misdiagnosis," Dr. Wells continues, unaware of his internal war. "Because you see, you weren't flat-lining, Barry. Your heartbeat was moving too fast for the EKG to register it."

Dr. Wells wheels on and Barry follows, keeps close on his heels, needing to stay tethered to someone, to hold his hand in the dark. "Now, I'm not the most popular person in town these days, but Detective West and his daughter gave me permission to bring you here, where we were able to stabilize you."

Barry almost can't breathe for the sudden tightness in his chest. "Iris?" he manages.

"Iris, yes. She came to see you quite often."

He's hardly aware of them at all, thinking about her, about  _Joe_ , how he's been gone not for a few hours but  _nine months_ , he was in a  _coma_ , and he's barely aware of Caitlin and Cisco's commentary.

"She talks a lot," Caitlin says.

" _And_ she's hot," Cisco adds.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

"I need to go," he tells them, earnest, pleading, anything to get away from this, to keep his head from exploding.

They immediately jump in with reasons why he needs to stay, and he has to resist the urge to throw up when they say  _tests,_ he just woke up from a  _coma_ , and  _why is this happening to me?_

"There's so much that we don't know," Dr. Wells says firmly, and there's an  _edge_ to his voice and an unnamable emotion creeps into Barry's consciousness.

_Get out now._

"I'm fine," he says, a little more sharply than he intends, stumbling over his own words and feet as he backs away, "really, I feel normal." Feeling stilted, like he's trying to learn the polities of a new country, he adds with as much sincerity as he can, "Thank you for saving my life."

Then he's off, and he only makes it four steps before he turns around, leans around the doorframe with one hand clenched in the shirt's fabric, and asks, "Can I keep the sweatshirt?"

Dr. Wells looks at him and Barry thinks they would hold him back if they could, but something tells him they  _can't_. Not just because they need him – for whatever tests they think they're going to get to run,  _ha._

But because maybe – maybe they couldn't stop him.

"Yeah, keep the sweatshirt," Dr. Wells says, giving no indication of what he's thinking, and Barry nods, manages a breathless  _okay,_  and takes off.

. o .

Barry barely makes it to outside before he collapses, chest heaving, against the side of the building, tucked directly underneath a security camera ( _blind spot_ ), arms around his knees, hugging them tight.

_This can't be happening._

_This isn't real._

I'm  _not real._

He can  _feel_ things differently, and there's an energy underneath his skin, like he's had too much caffeine, except it's not like caffeine at all – it's good, strong, solid, like muscle tone. Something that could propel him forward, give him the opportunity to run in ways he doesn't expect.

 _I'm a terrible runner. Iris knows it. Joe knows it. I know it. I have a duck waddle. I am a terrible runner_.

He repeats it to himself like it'll somehow help take him back to that  _before_ , to the nine months ago that he knows, but as he clutches his legs hard enough to bruise he knows it's not  _true_ , that he's here, now, and the grass smells sunny, earthy, delicate in a way he hasn't ever appreciated before, the sky is a  _stunning_ cloudless blue, everything about Central City is – breathtakingly familiar.

Slowly, his heart rate comes down again, and the shaking dissolves form his shoulders and back, settling into fine tremors. He doesn't know how long he sits there, smelling the grass as it drifts in a light breeze, listening to distant traffic and people,  _people_ , when did the world get so full? Everything stands out to him and it's like he's seeing the blueprint of it all, how it comes together, aware of some fine undercurrent that connects everything.

When he can finally breathe without feeling like he's going to throw up, Barry slowly, shakily pushes himself to his feet.

He doesn't know where he's going, is too distracted by the sights and sounds and smells around him, but his feet do, his muscles remember, flowing seamlessly across the streets. He feels like his own shadow, following obediently rather than taking charge, and when at last he sees the sign for CC Jitters, he feels hope and fear swelling in his chest as he reaches for the door.

She sees him, she  _sees him_ , and some tension in his shoulders finally  _eases_ as he catches her in a tight, gentle hug, squeezing her hard without breaking her, telling her with every breath  _I love you, I love you, I love you_  without ever opening his mouth.

It's simultaneously difficult to talk to her –  _you're nine months older than I remember you, you carry yourself a little differently, you look a little differently, what happened to you while I was gone?_  – and easy. He remembers her, who she is at her core, and even if she's changed, so has he, and maybe, maybe his mind will catch up with it soon and they can go back to just being  _them_.

And maybe more than them, maybe he'll actually say it, because he just lost  _nine months_ of his life and Iris lost him for those months, too, had no idea he would ever wake up again, and they need to stop  _holding back_ and start  _taking chances._

He puts her hand over his heart to show her he  _is_ alive, that they can still have a life together, and then – then the impossible happens.

A waitress bearing a full tray of food  _trips_ , but it doesn't shatter on the ground like it should. No, he sees it happen –  _in slow motion._

 _This isn't normal_ , he thinks, wide-eyed, trying not to shake apart, because what the  _hell_ is happening to him?

Thankfully, Iris doesn't notice his reaction as she asks, "Are you okay, Tracy?"

He doesn't think he could form a coherent lie if he tried.  _I just saw her fall in slow motion. I saw the tray shift like it was moving through water, like it couldn't fall any faster. It's like time stood still_.

"My dad is going to be  _so_ excited to see you," Iris says, squeezing his arm, "let me just go get my things." And she lets go, leaving Barry alone.

He waits near the door trying to keep the panic off his face while she arranges for an early leave, grabs her things; tries to remember how to just act  _casual_ around people, smile, idle, be absorbed in his own thoughts. Thankfully she isn't gone long enough for the press of people to overwhelm him, linking an arm with his and leading the way to the station.

Barry has a lot of questions – a  _lot_ of questions – but he doesn't ask her.

She won't know he answers.

_What really happened that night?_

_Why was I hit by that lightning bolt?_

_What happened while I was gone?_

_Why did time stop?_

Speech is beyond him, so he lets her talk, occasionally making a soft noise of agreement. When she finally looks across at him and asks slowly, "Are you okay?" he even smiles when he says  _I'm fine._

She lets it go and he's glad because if answering questions is hard, arguing is impossible.

He knows what he needs to do to fix his life, to undo what the coma imposed on him. He just needs to learn how to be  _Barry Allen_ again. And he will, because he  _is_ Barry Allen,  _nothing has changed_ , he's just nine months older than he should be.

It doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

. o .

It all happens very quickly after that.

Barry supposes it's fitting – after all, he has the ability to run  _six hundred miles an hour_ , something he could never have predicted. His whole life moves more quickly, now. Maybe it's making up for lost time – maybe it's trying to outdistance it. Either way, he doesn't move slowly, scarcely catches his breath between discovering he can run,  _fast_ , and making plans to take down the people like him, the people who have powers, who  _abuse_ them.

Finality is strong, pushing him forward when he feels like he can't, this isn't who he is, this isn't his  _life_ , he's supposed to be  _Barry Allen_ —

Ultimately, though, no matter how hard it propels him, no matter how fast he moves, he still has to catch his breath. He can't just keep running forward blindly.

So he runs towards the only person he can, the one person who will understand him, who  _knows_ him, who can help him understand it:

Oliver Queen.

. o .

There is something immeasurably calming about Oliver's presence. Something innately gratifying about his attention, like it's indisputably precious, rarer and more valuable than gold. Capturing his interest when it benefits him is one thing; holding it when it's not clear how it impacts Oliver at all is another.

But Oliver just looks at him, clad in Arrow regalia, and says firmly, "Talk."

So Barry does.

He paces along the roof and he pours his heart out, explains through inextinguishable tears, disbelieving laughter, and derisive, self-deprecating snarls how he shouldn't be the one gifted with these powers, he isn't strong enough, he has no idea what he's doing, and he misses what he's  _lost_.

He lets it bleed out of him, tells Oliver everything, tells him about Dr. Wells, a man who he admired beyond words, about Joe and Iris, people he can't afford to lose, how he doesn't know how he's going to be a hero if it ever puts them in danger, how he needs to somehow contain the purest joy he's ever known and stop running before he hits a wall.

The longer he talks, the less he feels like his shadow. He slowly becomes aware of his own footsteps, his own heartbeat, the coolness of the night air on his skin, the way his cheeks are still damp with tears. He finds his voice, his normal, steady voice, the one that emerges when he's finally woken from a nightmare and realized that he's  _safe_ again.

That, for all its differences, for all its nuances he doesn't fully understand and changes he hasn't even begun to comprehend, he's still  _alive_.

And Oliver is exactly the same.

Oliver has changed, too, but there's something about him that is immutable, something about him that Barry trusts more than the air in his lungs or the stars high above them. If Oliver told him to stand still and shot an arrow at him, Barry wouldn't run, trusting Oliver's reasons if not his logic, believing in his confidence, knowing he wouldn't hurt Barry unless he had to.

It's one thing he can say with absolute certainty: he trusts the Arrow, trusts Starling City's vigilante, trusts Oliver.

Even when he doesn't know how to read other people, he knows that Oliver sees him clearly, listens to him, hears him.

He might not understand him – and Barry can't say he understands Oliver well, either, doesn't know all of the scars he's hiding – but he does listen to him.

There's something to build on, there, and Barry finally sees the opportunity in front of him and takes it.

"So that's my story." And he thinks,  _I never wanted to lie to you about who I was, I tried not to, but I had to to get close to you and I'm sorry._

Oliver's gaze and gait don't waver and it's the inaction that speaks for him, that calms a restless anxiety in Barry's heart.

All it says:  _It's okay._

Barry's next breath feels more substantial, like a weight has finally lifted from his chest, and it emboldens him, keeps him talking. "I've spent my whole life searching for the impossible," he admits, "never imagining that I would become the impossible."

Barry sees the Felicity in him when he asks, "So why come to me?" It isn't accusatory; it's curious. Calculating. Already understanding why, but wanting to hear it anyway. "Something tells me you didn't just run six hundred miles to say 'hi' to an old friend," Oliver prompts, throwing him a line.

Knowing how rare it is to be offered Oliver's help, Barry doesn't hesitate. "All my life, I've wanted to just do more . . .  _be_ more. And now I am." Feeling the weight of the day pressing on him, recalling in that strange dislocated state of mind that a man is  _dead_  because he couldn't save him, he adds bitterly, "And the first chance I get to help someone, I screw it up." Anxious, despairing, he asks, "What if Wells is right? What if I'm not a hero? What if I'm just some guy who was struck by lightning?"

It seems real, his own insubstantiality, but he can still  _feel_ the energy under his skin, the way the lightning cocoons him, infuses him, makes him feel at home, safe, secure,  _relaxed_. Like everything is fine as long as he can feel it.

"I don't think that lightning bolt struck you, Barry," Oliver says, and Barry wonders if he can see the lightning, if he can feel it, that crackle of energy just under his skin, light and bright and perfect, "I think it chose you."

Swallowing hard because it's more than he deserves, more than he could ever deserve, he says quietly, "I don't know if I can be like you, Oliver."  _You're braver and smarter and stronger than I'll ever be. You know things. You get how to take a punch and get back up. You can control your emotions and take down bad guys. You always get it right._ "If I can be some . . . vigilante." It seems alien on his tongue, like they're talking about mythical creatures and not actual human beings.

Oliver looks at him and Barry can't mistake the seriousness to his tone, the absolute quality to his voice as he speaks. "You can be better," he says clearly. "Because you can inspire people in a way I never could. Watching over your city like a guardian angel. Making a difference. Saving people . . . in a flash."

Something settles in him, some inner peace sweeping over him as he thinks about what it means to wake up to a different world, to being a different  _person._

Looking at Oliver, he thinks,  _I don't have to do it alone._

Feeling less like the world is collapsing and more like it's finally resting in place, Barry watches him as he moves towards the edge of the roof.

"Take your own advice. Wear a mask."

Then he's off, jumping clean over the edge, and Barry panics before he can help himself, rushing over to see Oliver swing nimbly on a line, utterly at ease.

"Cool," he says aloud, a new emotion crowding to the forefront of his mind as the agitation recedes.

As he takes off, feeling the electricity surging through him, the energy, the power, the  _freedom_ , he finds he can live in a world with this, a world where he can feel like this.

And as he sets off for home, he gives it a name:

_Joy._


End file.
